The Touch of His Hand
by Ellfine
Summary: The touch of a hand can convey many things. This is one observer’s perspective on the touch of the Captain of Lothlorien’s march wardens.


Many thanks to my beta StripedTigress. 

Disclaimer: The settings and characters are Tolkien's. I make no money from this.

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I watched him swiftly dance around the practice field, his silver hair swinging across his back with each movement of his sword.

Block.

Attack.

Block.

Turn.

Thrust.

It was as if his blade were an extension of his body. He was beautiful, but deadly.

Besting his latest opponent and no doubt winning himself yet another bottle of fine wine, Haldir clapped his defeated brother Rumil on the back. Laughing at discussion of a rematch, they moved on to the archery range, but neither of them noticed me perched in the tree watching them.

Each took up his bow, but I only had eyes for the elder brother. I savored the way Haldir's long slender fingers nocked an arrow and drew it back. Powerful arms held the draw steady, his broad shoulders relaxed in a perfect stance. Almost casually releasing the arrow, he hit the target dead center. With a noticeable absence of tension in his body and no change of expression on his face, he drew another arrow and loosed it. Again and again he did this, until the black center of the target was fluffy and white for all of the arrows protruding from it. All the while the impassive look masked his face. Some thought him arrogant, but I knew the confidence he exuded was hard bought.

Suddenly I noticed a mischievous twinkle in his eye and watched as he turned slightly, landing an arrow in the middle of his brother's target. Then Haldir's face lit in a broad smile at Rumil's annoyed scowl.

Having been raised among warriors and having served as a healer since before the Last Alliance, I knew good soldiers when I saw them. I could look at an ellon and know instantly if he had what it took to be a warrior. I looked on Haldir now as he drew his last arrow and knew that in the touch of his hand there lay great strength.

When the new recruits arrived for their afternoon session, Haldir instructed them himself. I watched as he moved among them correcting stances, demonstrating new moves, explaining the behavior of the enemy. He always found something to compliment before he made a correction. His melodious voice never commanded in anger or derision, only with the confident assurance of a proud officer in charge of his soldiers. I always admired the way the touch of his hands imparted skill.

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Recently, we received word of orcs amassing on our borders. The Lord and Lady, fearing a major assault, have called upon all of our ellin, the warriors, the farmers, the fishermen, and the craftsmen to defend the Golden Wood. I marched with the healers at the rear of the army, ready to lend my aid when the time came. I served in the Last Alliance spending 7 years in Mordor, tending elves and mortals alike. I have seen death many times in many forms. I have seen the rigid bearing of soldiers shouldering the burden of foresight of their own deaths or of the knowledge that if they fail, their families will ultimately suffer as well.

After two days on the march, we set up camp. Our scouts have reported that the brunt of the assault will fall upon us here. Celeborn and Haldir have chosen this place as our battle field for the defensibility of it and for the ease of transporting supplies. Tomorrow the attack will come.

I have just completed setting up the healing tents, organizing the herbs, bandages, knives, needles, and thread for sutures. Stepping outside to stretch and drink my cup of tea in the fresh evening air, I look upon the soldiers lounging outside their tents. I can feel the nervousness in the air, the pre-battle tension that I remember so well from thousands of years ago. I recognize many of the faces around me from previous skirmishes on the borders or from battles long gone. I am startled to recognize many more from the market place and the farms. Some are so young that I know they have scarcely reached their majority while others sit as respected patriarchs among 6 generations of their sons. I see in the eyes of all around me the concern, the what ifs, or the restless anticipation of first battle.

A silver head bobs among the crowd of Noldorin, Sindarin, and Silvan ellin. Haldir hovers from gathering to gathering, greeting old comrades in arms, sharing jests with close friends and kin, smiling proudly and encouragingly at the new and uncertain faces. As he leaves each group, the ellin there are a little more at ease, a little more confident. I see their trust that all will be well, that they will be going home soon, and their pride that because of their actions on the morrow, they will have a home to return to. In each ellon he claps on the shoulder or back, the touch of his hand brings courage and hope.

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The three days of battle were grisly with much loss. There simply were too many orcs. Thrice they advanced upon us and thrice our warriors drove them back. At last the enemy has been driven from the Golden Wood.

My clothes are covered in blood and my hair is sticky with it. I have lost count of how many wounds I have staunched and stitched, of how many eyes I have closed for the last time. The ellon I am tending now thrashes about wildly. I ran out of healing herbs hours ago, I have nothing to give him for his considerable pain. And I am exhausted.

Haldir has just arrived, newly returned from the field of battle bearing the last of the wounded to our care. He looks worse than I do with black and red blood covering his armor, his cloak torn and muddy, a thin gash drying in an angry red crusted line from his high cheek bone to his chin. Smiling reassuringly at me, he kneels beside the young warrior and takes his hand. Turning the young face to meet his gaze, Haldir speaks words praising the strength, courage, and valor of my patient, calming and settling him. He encourages the ellon to grip his hand against the pain, allowing me to work. Many stitches and torn rags later, the young one rests and Haldir moves on as do I, from one wounded warrior to the next. I marvel at his compassion and how the touch of his hand brings comfort and rest.

Well past midnight, a bathed and exhausted captain of the march wardens finally comes to his bed. He snuggles in and I hold my Haldir close, feeling his hot tears dampening my night gown as he mourns the loss of so many of those under his command. Reaching across our bond, I comfort my beloved husband with my fëa while he lies wrapped in my arms. Slowly rubbing soothing circles on his back, at last I feel him relinquish his hold on the memories of these terrible days and relax in sleep.

Then I smile, for in the touch of my hand, my warrior finds peace.


End file.
